


The Midwinter Hedgehog

by traumschwinge



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28221135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traumschwinge/pseuds/traumschwinge
Summary: When Geralt answered Roche's call for help with bandit problems, he hadn't expected Emhyr to be in Vizima, too. He'd expected even less that Emhyr would be nice to him without any apparent ulterior moment.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 12
Kudos: 171





	The Midwinter Hedgehog

A thick layer of snow covered the Temerian countryside in every direction. Geralt had brought Roach to a halt on top of a hill. Before them, the white of the ground and the white of the sky blended together. Only some lone firs and small copses of bare trees broke the monotony. Everything else was white and endlessly quiet.

Not for the first time, Geralt questioned the wisdom of leaving his warm mansion in much milder Touissaint to travel to Temeria in the middle of fucking winter. All because Roche had asked him for help. All because he had sounded so desperate in his last letter. All because while he wanted to stay out of politics, now more than ever, his friend was afraid of losing everything he’d been working for since Foltest’s death and Geralt was too sentimental not to help Roche.

So he was now riding through snow and bitter cold and biting wind to Vizima. He couldn’t even curse the weather fast enough to keep warm. There were villages around, somewhere, but they, too, had been smothered with the thick blanket of snow. He navigated more by memory than by vision. This close to Vizima, at least he knew the countryside. All he had yet to avoid was getting stuck in a bog and he was in the clear.

He glanced up at the sky. Maybe he’d have to wait out the night. He sniffed the air. There was the smoke of a wood fire. Close, too. He nudged Roach into a trott down the hill, following his nose and trusting his mare to find a safe way through the snow.

An hour later, close to sunset, he reached the village. At least Geralt assumed it was a village. The snow was falling in heavy flakes now, making it hard even for him to see in the evening light. There was an inn, though. The yard had been shoveled at some point during the day as the layer of snow was thinner there. He dismounted and led Roach to the stable. He did notice the well fed horses already in there, but saw no clue as to their owners. So he rubbed Roach down and took the saddlebags, before trudging to the inn.

Inside, there was a big fire burning in the hearth. Geralt shook the snow off his travel coat, before stepping away from the door. The warmth was already a relief, even though he could feel the snow melt on his clothes and hair and the moisture creep in. How he hated the fucking winter now that he didn’t have to endure it anymore.

The innkeeper looked at him with the usual distrust, but rented Geralt a room for the night and Roach’s place in the stable for a reasonable price. Then, he shooed the witcher off to find himself somewhere to sit on the crowded tables so he could have the bowl of stew that came with the room.

That was when Geralt really looked around. The inn wasn’t just filled with the local peasants seeking refuge from their own cold homes in the tap room, but also with a small group of Nilfgaardian soldiers. That was unexpected. Roche had managed to get Emhyr to agree to letting Temeria keep partial sovereignty. There wasn’t a need for Emhyr to have troops still stationed this far away from the Redanian border. At least, not that Geralt knew of. Which, he realized as he sat down in a corner by himself, was probably the reason Roche had asked him to come to Vizima in the first place. If Emhyr was planning something backhanded or sinister, Geralt was the only possible option Roche had to put a wrench in it.

The barmaid put down a large bowl of stew in front of him. It was a sad, watery affair. Geralt fished around in it for a while for anything he could identify, but the few chunks in the thin broth had been boiled beyond recognition or taste. He thought he smelled parsley roots and turnips but he wasn’t entirely sure. At least the beer he was served with it was good, warming his frozen body.

Absentmindedly, he listened to the conversations around him. At one of the tables men played dice, on others there was silent serious drinking going on. The table with the Nilfgaardians was mostly quiet, which in and of itself was suspicious. So Geralt listened to that conversation, somewhat concerned for the locals.

It turned out the officer talking was recounting a folktale Geralt had never heard anywhere. He was almost certain it was entirely new and made up, even though the officer claimed it was an old tradition in his homeland. The tale was about a poor little orphan, freezing and starving in the cold winter. The child had built shelter from the snow and lit a fire. And then talking woodland creatures started showing up, begging the child to share the warmth and shelter. A fox joined, wrapping itself around the child to keep it warm in thanks. A hare brought twigs to keep the fire burning. And at last a hedgehog came, who begged to join but had nothing to offer at the time. The hedgehog promised the child gifts at midwinter if only it was permitted to stay. The child, innocent and pure, agreed. And just as promised, on the morning after the longest night of the year, the child, now taken in by a family, woke up surrounded by fruits and sweets. The hedgehog had kept its promise.

Geralt frowned at the remnants of his stew as the officer explained how nowadays adults gifted children fruit and sweets in memory of the hedgehog keeping its promise. The entire story was strange. Doubly so because a Nilfgardian officer was telling it. A benevolent magical hedgehog. Who’d ever heard of such a thing. It sounded suspiciously like something written to make Emhyr look better. Well, at least to Geralt, and probably other people who knew how the Emperor’d spent his youth. Only to what end, Geralt couldn’t quite tell yet.

He left early the next morning. The horses of the Nilfgardians were still in the stable when Geralt fetched a very unwilling Roach. It wasn’t far to Vizima anymore, maybe another day. The weather had cleared overnight. The sky was a bright icy blue. The air was crisp. If not for the snow, it would have been a perfect day for a ride. As it was, Geralt pulled his heavy cloak closer around himself as he nudged Roach onto the road.

Vizima was mostly as Geralt remembered it from his last visit. And just like during his last visit, he didn’t even get a chance to look around the city. The guards at the gates recognized him and had gotten the order to escort him directly to the palace. At the palace, he was greeted by a hassled looking Ves. She ushered him into a guest room, where a bath and a fresh change of clothes was waiting for him. Geralt didn’t even get to ask what the hell was going on before Ves snapped at him to get washed up and dressed so he’d be presentable. Wondering when the hell Roche had become such a stickler for protocol, Geralt got in the bath. The hot water was wonderful, warming his frozen bones. He scrubbed himself down quickly and efficiently, before getting out of the tub with a sad sigh. He would have liked the opportunity to actually enjoy the bath. The room was still well heated but not as warm as the water had been. He rubbed himself dry quickly, before taking a closer look at the clothes laid out for him. They were all black. With a frown, Geralt put the doublet he’d picked up back down. He was of half a mind to put his own armor back on. Black clothes. Mandatory baths. All that was missing was a forced shave and Mererid hovering around him. Geralt shuddered. If he’d known Roche had to deal with Emhyr personally, he’d have hurried more.

He was still trying to make the doublet fit when Ves came back. She didn’t give him even a moment before she dragged him down the hall and to what Geralt had always thought of as the administrative wing.

“How deep?” Geralt whispered to Ves.

She briefly turned to glare at him. “Deep deep shit. I think. Roche… excuse me, his Majesty is worried. We thought you might help.”

Geralt pulled her into an alcove. “Just what the hell is going on? Exactly. Can’t help if I don’t know shit.”

“There have been… troubles.” Ves avoided his eyes. “Uprisings. Attacks on soldiers, both ours and the Black Ones. Nothing big, but getting more frequent. And we can’t… The Emperor wants us to put a stop to it. And now he’s here and Roche hasn’t left his office in a day and…” She was shaking with impotent anger. “I can’t help him.”

Geralt nodded. He’d thought it was something like that. “Right. Alright.” He let go of her arm. “We better go, then.” Not that he had any idea how exactly he was supposed to help. But he could damn well try.

There was one Nilfgaardian and one Temerian soldier stationed outside the office that had changed ownership at least twice in the last few years. Right now, it was probably Roche’s. Ves glowered at them both, daring them to bar her way. The soldiers exchanged a look, then both looked at Geralt and exchanged another look. The Temerian shrugged. The Nilfgaardian sighed. “You may enter, Master Vatt'ghern,” the Nilfgaardian said in the usual singsong accent. He glared back at Ves. “She may not.” And it sounded so final that there was little doubt there’d be blood if she challenged him.

Ves huffed. “I’ll have you known that King Vernon trusts me.”

“Alas,” the Nilfgaardian shot back. “The Emperor does not.”

Geralt put a hand on Ves’ shoulder to keep her from lunging at the soldier. He could tell she wanted to. “Let it go, this time. Can’t have a diplomatic incident like that.”

“Fuck,” she huffed, deflating a little. “Just…” She pushed her hair back. “Get in there already.”

Geralt nodded at the soldiers. After a brief pause, the Temerian opened the door for him. “Sir Geralt of Rivia,” he announced before letting Geralt step inside.

The room was almost cozy. Roche had had tapestries hung on every wall which kept the stone from radiating cold. There was a large fire burning. The sweet smell of tea filled the air. The room was dominated by a huge table, a map covering most of its surface. Roche himself had stopped mid-pace to turn to Geralt. He looked thinner than the last time Geralt had seen him and a lot more stressed. Being king seemed to be much less than it’s all been cracked up to be.

In the high backed chair closest to the fire sat Emhyr. He didn’t bother to even acknowledge Geralt. Instead, he was still frowning at the map in front of him. From a first cursory glance, he looked much the same as always. His expression and whole appearance was one Geralt secretly wanted to liken to an angry wet raptor. So, Ves’ assessment of the situation had probably been right. They were in deep shit.

“Geralt,” Roche finally greeted him, pulling himself together again. “I hadn’t heard you’d arrived.”

“Sorry.” Geralt shrugged. “If not for the snow I’d been here sooner.”

Roche’s eyes darted from Geralt to Emhyr and back. Geralt rolled his eyes. “No need to introduce us. Emhyr ‘n me go a long way back.”

Finally, Emhyr turned to look at Geralt. He gave no sign that he was either surprised or impressed by Geralt’s general existence and him being here in particular. “Cirilla is well,” he said, instead of any greeting. “She’s back in the capital, making sure everything runs smoothly in my absence. From what I understand, she sends her regards.”

Geralt blinked. He hadn’t expected to be told all that without asking. “Er… thanks?”

Emhyr motioned to an empty chair. “Sit, so we can continue. Your Majesty, if you’d fill him in, seeing as it was your idea to involve Geralt in the first place.”

Roche swallowed. Then, he cleared his throat. “We’ve been getting reports about unrest and minor incidents for a while now, Geralt,” he began. “The blue marks on the map are where our… where Temerian soldiers have been attacked. Black for incidents involving Nilfgaardian soldiers. We have been doing our best to pacify the population. It had worked for a while, but ever since the snow set in… the red marks are for incidents in the past week.” 

There were quite a few red marks. Geralt was starting to understand why this needed Emhyr’s personal attention. From what Ciri had told him, allowing Temeria to govern itself wasn’t exactly popular within the empire. If the kingdom kept giving Emhyr trouble, he’d have little choice but to fully occupy it. 

“I was hoping you could go and find the root of the problem,” Roche finished. There was some actual desperation in his eyes. 

Geralt sighed deeply. “So, you want me to ride back out again?”

“Tomorrow,” Emhyr interrupted. “As urgent as the matter is, it will keep until the morning. There is little sense in you braving the weather and then getting stuck out in the cold during the night.”

Geralt squinted at him. Just to be contrary, he wanted to tell Emhyr that he would leave right now. But it was cold and by the time he’d gotten past the gates it’d be late afternoon. As much as it pained him, Emhyr was right. But he still couldn’t just give in without question. “Why?” he asked. “Sounds almost like you’re worried about my wellbeing. I’m touched, Emhyr, really.”

Emhyr rolled his eyes at him. “I’d merely prefer if my daughter wouldn’t stop talking to me. You, personally, don’t matter much to me either way.” It sounded so blasé, Geralt would almost have believed him if not for the indistinct feeling that Emhyr was lying. He just couldn’t tell why. 

Which reminded Geralt… He looked over to Roche for a moment. Emhyr would probably answer anyway. “Why are your officers telling stories about a gift giving hedgehog that appears on Midwinter?”

Emhyr actually smirked at him for that. “Because I ordered it.”

“Why the hell?” The words left Geralt’s mouth before he could even think about this information.

“To test a theory, in part.” Emhyr nodded at Roche. “If it is correct, it’ll take a few more weeks until we see results. But for the past few days, Temerian and Nilfgaardian troops together have started delivering food to villages that have reported a bad harvest. It cannot be the only reason for the unrest since not all the sites of incidents have reported failed crops this year. But we agreed it is a sensible approach. Besides, neither of us wants the people of Temeria to starve needlessly. The story is to aid with the acceptance of the food delivered by Nilfgaardian soldiers alone. Religion always passes as an acceptable reason for unexpected charity.”

“Yeah, alright, following so far,” Geralt huffed. “But why a hedgehog?”

The way amusement was shining in Emhyr’s eyes made Geralt’s blood boil with anger. “Because you said I didn’t know anything about children and lacked any recognizable sense of humor.”

If Roche hadn’t been watching, Geralt would have snatched Emhyr up by his collar. Doing something this elaborate just to spite him was like Emhyr. Very much so. Well, at least if Geralt deluded himself into thinking he mattered to Emhyr in any way. Which, admittedly, was far fetched and an entirely disturbing thought. “I hate you, too,” he said lamely. It seemed the appropriate thing to say.

Emhyr huffed softly under his breath in response.

Roche cleared his throat awkwardly. “If you don’t need anything else, Geralt…” He looked uncomfortable. “There is still logistics we need to discuss. There’ll be a list of villages for you to check out later.”

Geralt nodded. After a last glance at Emhyr, he stood. “Well, then, see you around.” Neither of them stopped him when he left.

Later that evening, Roche came to find Geralt. Ves had been keeping Geralt company, playing cards and keeping his mug filled with strong beer. Geralt still sometimes woke up with the remembered ache of a fresh tattoo on his neck, making him wary of alcohol around Ves. He didn’t need a repeat of that. Who knew when he’d next find a sorceress willing to remove a vulgar tattoo for him.

Roche collapsed into an armchair with a deep sigh. He didn’t even say anything much for a couple of minutes. It was enough for Geralt and Ves to finish their game of Gwent. Finally, Roche groaned, “How can you deal with him like that, Geralt?”

“Who?” Geralt looked up from their game. He’d beaten Ves, but it had been closer than he would have liked. He was trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong in his strategy. “Emhyr?” he added belatedly.

“Yes. Why the fuck is he allowing you to address him like that anyway? Or let it slide that you don’t bow?” Roche covered his eyes. “I swear anybody else would already have been hanged.”

“He can’t do that,” Geralt smirked. “We gotta play nice with each other or Ciri’ll have our heads.”

Roche snorted. “If you’re sure of that. Still think it’s strange.”

“Well, why else would I get away with my  _ insolence _ ?” Geralt tried to pronounce the last word in imitation of Emhyr. It made Roche’s mouth twitch up, so that was worth it. “Can’t be that he likes me. Why would he?”

“Who knows?” Roche groaned. “Who fucking knows what goes on in his head anyway? Can’t even believe he’s here. Because of a few injured and dead soldiers. We’d get it under control without him. Or could have set up the aid he’s giving by megascope. But no. He has to be here and look over my shoulder all the fucking time. Should just say outright that he doesn’t trust me to handle it.”

Geralt shrugged. “I’ll keep my eyes open for any ploy. But I don’t think there’s much he could want. He needs you to succeed more than he needs you to fail. And besides…” He gave a helpless smile. “Ciri knows we’re friends. There’s a good chance she’s pushing at him to help, too.”

Roche frowned. “He’s been mentioning her.”

“Has he now?” Geralt asked, eager to hear even the tiniest sliver of information about his daughter.

Roche waved a hand. “Here and there. How she’d have approved of involving you, so it was a good idea. Can’t praise me for the life of him, but at least he agreed with that. Doesn’t need to worry about the empire when he can leave it to her. Sounds damn proud of her, if you’d believe he has any emotions left.”

“Good.” Geralt could feel his own heart swell with pride for Ciri. If even Emhyr approved and valued her opinions, she had to do a good job. She’d be such a great empress once she’d take over. He’d always known she would, but it was nice to hear it from other people, too. “He should value her and better not-”

A knock interrupted him. At Roche’s prompt, a Nilfgaardian soldier stepped smartly into the room. He saluted Roche equally smartly, before announcing: “Sir Geralt of Rivia, his Imperial Majesty urgently requests your presence.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Why the fuck-” At the soldier’s glare, he snapped his mouth shut. “Alright, coming.” He pushed himself to his feet. For a second, he considered putting the blasted doublet back on but then decided against it. If Emhyr called on him at night, he’d have to take a lack of doublets.

The soldier led him to the guest wing. There, Nilfgaardian soldiers were patrolling every hallway. He was led to a door guarded by two more soldiers and then quickly shoved inside. Geralt didn’t even have time to ask what the hell this was all about. They’d all refused to look him in the eyes. As if… he shuddered at the idea... they thought he’d been actually called to warm Emhyr’s bed. But before he could be adequately horrified at the idea, he heard a voice from the next room.

Ciri.

His chest filled with sudden warmth. He rushed over. There was a megascope set up and running. Ciri was there, at least as a vision in the megascope, talking animatedly to Emhyr. He cleared his throat to make his presence known, his mouth too dry for actual words. Emhyr’d called him to talk to Ciri. What the hell.

Emhyr turned at the noise and nodded courtly. “Geralt,” he said, waving him over.

Ciri had fallen silent and then let out a small scream when Geralt stepped into her view. She looked just as happy to see him as he felt about seeing her. If only he could hug her, too.

Emhyr put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it,” he murmured, before retreating to another room, granting them privacy.

Geralt couldn’t believe Emhyr had actually done that. A hitherto unknown gratefulness made itself known. Emhyr had called him to talk to Ciri, for them. And then had gone before Geralt could even thank him for it.

They spent at least an hour catching up. It had been so long Geralt had actually seen her. But Ciri seemed happy and fulfilled with the work of a crown princess. Even though she also admitted to missing Emhyr now that she was filling in for him. But she was content in her role and full of ideas and hope for a better future. She’d said as much in her letters, but to actually hear her say it out loud put Geralt at ease like nothing else.

Talking to Ciri was the best time he’d had in a long while.

She ended the conversation eventually, when the exhaustion of her day caught up with her. Geralt promised to talk to her again when he returned to Vizima from his contract. It made her smile. He smiled back at her.

The incredible warmth inside him didn’t fade when the megascope powered down. It would probably take days even out there in the snow for it to fade. He was still smiling brightly when he, in passing, knocked on the doorframe to the room to which Emhyr had retreated.

Emhyr put down the page he had been reading and looked up at Geralt. “Well?” he prompted.

“Thanks,” Geralt said, surprising even himself with how much he meant it. “For having me fetched to talk to Ciri. It… it means a lot.”

Emhyr rolled his eyes at him. “It was hardly a grand gesture. It was merely convenient, as I would have talked to her anyway.”

“Still.” Geralt swallowed. “Nice to hear her voice again. And see her. She’s actually happy to be the crown princess.”

“Well, that’d be pleasing to hear, if I put any stock in your opinion.”

“Do you have to be an ass all the time?” Geralt growled but it lacked proper heat. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “As if it’s not bad enough that your guards now think you called me here to fuck me.”

Emhyr slowly looked him up and down. “I believe that is entirely your own fault. I did not ask you to come in any state of undress. And yet here you are.”

Geralt looked down his front. No, there wasn’t a revealing tear in his shirt. The neckline wasn’t too deep either. He was dressed enough in his opinion. Courtly opinions were all bullshit anyway. “You’re not worried about the talk that could cause?”

Emhyr shrugged. “If I were, you wouldn’t be in my bedroom right now. I imagine any talk of an illicit affair between us would be vastly more uncomfortable for you.”

“Great,” Geralt sighed. “And seeing me miserable is good enough not to put a stop to it, right?”

“It is entertaining, yes.” Emhyr dared to smile at him. “Especially since it is your own fault. And harmless, anyway.”

“What would Ciri say if she heard?” Geralt tried to pull his last trump.

“I imagine she would laugh. Possibly at us both.”

Geralt had to admit Emhyr was right. Ciri would laugh at them, even though she knew them too well to believe any part of the rumor. Geralt glared at Emhyr.

“Geralt,” Emhyr sighed. “If there’s nothing else you want. And if you don’t plan on giving the rumors a core of truth. Then I bid you goodnight.”

“‘night, Emhyr,” Geralt said automatically. He got back to the door before his brain caught up. “Wait.” He stopped. “Does that mean you’d fuck me?”

Emhyr looked up from the paper he’d picked up again. “Out!” he ordered. “Now!” He looked ready to strangle Geralt. It seemed like the right moment to flee, before Emhyr acted on that impulse.

Ves and Roche were still in his room when he came back. He growled at Ves’ suggestive smirk. “He called me to talk to Ciri,” he snapped when the growl didn’t work.

“Damn.” Ves dared to laugh at him. “I really thought you had something going on with him. I mean. C’mon. He treats you special. You get away with offenses that’d get anyone else hanged. Even Roche said…”

“I merely said it might loosen the old bastard up a little,” Roche interrupted. 

“Anyway,” Ves plowed on. “Aren’t you the least bit curious what it’d be like?”

As much as it pained Geralt to admit it even to himself, he was now. Especially since Ves then proceeded to speculate in detail about what it would be like. He was pretty sure she was wrong about the force and ropes. Not that he’d say that out loud. It’d only lead to more questions about his involvement with Emhyr. And he couldn’t explain how he knew anyway. 

It was late in the night when Ves finally decided to go to bed. Roche had been snoring in his chair for a while by then. It was endearing in a way, to see him running himself ragged for his country. Geralt had been worrying about him at first but all in all his friend seemed to have adjusted well. He was at the very least working harder than any other king Geralt had ever met. Even Emhyr had to see it. Suddenly he wished he could ask for confirmation that Roche was doing well. It’d been a long way for him to get where he was now and he was doing his best. But some outside validation always helped.

Geralt left the Royal Palace and Vizima early the next morning. The sun had barely risen when he got on Roach. There were still deep shadows in the dips of the countryside. The lake outside the city sparkled at the surface, but the water was inky black beneath. It was almost romantic, Geralt thought as he rode past, looking across the water to the bog beyond. He wondered for a moment if the people in the tiny village still worshipped the Vodyanoy. A small pang of regret went through him as he thought of Kalkstein. As mad as the sorcerer had been, he’d also been a friend. He turned back to the road and the task ahead.

Roche had handed him the promised list, together with generous rations for the road. He had enough for a couple of days, even in the cold. The first village was within a day’s ride. The next was a day’s ride from there and so on until he’d end up back in Vizima in about two weeks.

“Just before Midwinter,” he told Roach and then pulled a face. “Not that it’d matter, right? But it’ll be nice to stay more than one night, huh, Roach? Get warmed through. Maybe even wait out this damned snow.”  _ And not think about some manipulative bastard all night just because he’d done something nice for once in his life,  _ he added in the privacy of his mind. Some things he couldn’t even tell Roach. Especially since she’d judge him for it. 

He reached the village about an hour before sunset. It was small. Poor, too, despite how close it was to the capital. Some of the roofs hadn’t even gotten new thatch in some years. The smell of rotting straw tingled in Geralt’s nose. He dismounted when he reached the first house. No inn, either. No people around. He could hear wooden bolts being slid in place.

“Friendly,” he muttered to Roach as he led her down where he presumed the dirt road was. “Wonder what happened here.”

He picked the largest house and pounded on the door in the hopes of finding the one in charge there. A middle aged woman opened the door. She wore a hostile expression that only got darker when she saw the medallion around his neck. She would have slammed the door in his face hadn’t he stopped her. It took a while, but he eventually convinced her to tell him the village’s woes. He had to bribe her with a good portion of his provisions. There were children and an old man in the other room. He could hear them. But there was little to no food.

The woman told him how they had regular visits by men in armor. They claimed to be soldiers coming to collect supplies and taxes for the King or the Emperor, depending on the armor. But the woman was almost sure they were always the same men. So the last time when men in armor came down the road with a waggon full of barrels and boxes, the villagers had attacked. A lot of the young men of the village had died when the soldiers had defended themselves, before their captain put a stop to the fighting and the soldiers retreated. In exchange for a place for the night, Geralt promised her to write a letter for the authorities in the capital with a request for aid. The woman clearly didn’t believe he could make anything happen but still let him sleep by the hearth for the night. 

Geralt wrote the letter anyway and then closed it with a seal he’d found at the bottom of his provisions. It was an odd seal, maybe specially made for him, with a wolf’s head surrounded by three lilies and a sun above. With a seal like that, the letter would probably reach Roche or even Emhyr eventually.

The stories he heard in the next villages were much of the same. They’d been robbed for weeks if not months by men looking like soldiers. They’d finally snapped when the soldiers looked less hostile and attacked real soldiers. Geralt ran out of provisions after the third village. After the sixth, he stopped. 

Instead of riding to the next village he pulled out a map Roche had also supplied and tried to figure out the route the bandits had to have taken. They were hitting the villages almost at random. There was a forest near all of them. But, since it was Temeria, that didn’t have to mean a lot. He still decided to have a look around there. Especially since the snow there should be a lot lower.

The forest was a wash. There were bandits, a small group at least, but no looted armors, and even their weapons were shoddy. Geralt let them off with a few broken bones. Those garden variety thugs weren’t worth the effort of killing them. 

Just when he was about to leave the forest again, he heard movement in a tree. Snow had slipped off a branch and was falling to the ground. Geralt had his sword out when the arrow came flying at his head. He deflected it before jumping out of the saddle. A quick blast of aard shook the tree enough to knock the archer down. He landed on his feet with surprising grace. The elf had a dagger in his hand when he got up. Geralt noticed the squirrel tail, still smelling of fresh blood and musk. 

“Stop,” Geralt called. “I don’t want to fight.”

“You’re with the dh’oine army,” the elf hissed. “You come and you take at sword point and now you don’t want to fight?”

Geralt frowned. “Here, too?”

“What here too?”

“Tell me about those robbing soldiers,” Geralt asked. “I’m looking for them.”

The elf glowered at Geralt for a moment longer before relaxing minutely. “They came about a week ago. We don’t have anything here. We’re just trying to build a life! And then those dh’oine soldiers come and take it. Again and again. We were promised change! But nothing! It’s as bad as before the war!”

A week. That was the freshest lead he’d gotten. It was probably even still fresh enough to be helpful. “Alright. Need more details if I’m gonna be of any help. Promise that you and your people will get some form of aid. But you gotta help me first.”

“Why should I trust you, Vatt'ghern?” The elf’s expression was still guarded, but he’d dropped the fighting stance. He wanted to help. He just needed a bit more convincing.

“Fought by Iorveth’s side up to the massacre of Loc Muinne. Before that, and near here, I fought next to Yaevinn against the Order of the Flaming Rose.” Geralt shrugged. “If one of his people is still around, they can probably vouch for me.”

At the mention of Iorveth’s name, the elf had looked surprised. But the mention of Yaevinn and the Order brought the fire of determination back to his eyes. “Wait here,” he ordered.

Geralt nodded. As the elf left, he walked back over to Roach to scratch her nose. She huffed against his hand, then nudged his cheek.

“I know,” Geralt told her. “It’s cold and getting dark and the snow is wet, too. Don’t like it either. But we gotta wait until he comes back. Who knows, maybe he’ll have a nice warm stable for you.”

Roach let out a soft whinney in response.

It was a while before the elf returned. Geralt had melted a small patch of snow so Roach could graze. He’d fished out a small pouch of nuts and dried fruit for himself to munch on. He didn’t have much more than that for rations after giving away so much.

He really couldn’t wait to be back in Vizima.

When the elf returned, he was terse and worried, but led Geralt deeper into the forest. Their destination was a well hidden clearing. A camp had been built there. It was hard to call it a village. The makeshift shacks and reinforced tents barely provided enough shelter against the harsh Temerian winter. A pang of sympathy went through Geralt. The elf hadn’t lied. They didn’t have much here. Barely enough to survive at the best of times.

There was a small group of people waiting for him in the center of the clearing. Mostly elves and a few dwarfs and one single halfling. Geralt had the sinking feeling that he’d just walked into the camp of former Scoia’tael. Or not so former, when it came to the younger ones like his guide.

“Welcome, Gwynbleidd,” one of the elves said. He looked about Geralt’s age, but considering neither of them was human, he could just as well be a millennia old. Or actually the fifty he looked. “Please excuse the suspicion you’ve been wrongly treated with. You must understand, these are difficult times after a few good years. We’d just let our guard down when we were attacked again.”

Geralt nodded. “And by those bearing the colors of the king no less,” he ventured. “Must have come as quite the betrayal.”

“Bearing, yes.” The skin around the elf’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “But unlike our youths, we have once fought the Order and the Blue Stripes. Had King Vernon, had Commander Roche, sent those men against us, we would not be standing here today. So, tell us, Gwynbleidd, who were those men?”

“Fuck if I know,” Geralt sighed. “But gonna find out, eventually. Sooner, with your help. And… could ask a few favors in the capital, if you wanna stay here. Maybe organize some help, even.”

The elf laughed. “Gwynbleidd, come, come. A word. In private.” He glowered at the people around him, before leading Geralt back to the edge of the clearing. He lowered his voice, and turned his back to the others. “Truth to be told, I already was in contact with King Vernon before the attack. He reached out and is trying his best to undo the damages he personally and those in charge before him have done to the non-human population. He even asked for counsel, instead of imposing his aid on us. This village needs to be built. He wants it built. The soldiers weren’t soldiers. They were common bandits. But they managed to destroy the fragile trust our youngsters had in humans. You need to bring them to justice. They need to be dealt with in accordance with the law. And we need to be awarded recompense in accordance with the law, too.”

Geralt nodded gravely. “I’ll make sure of that.”

“Good.” The elf clapped a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Laws are only as good as their reach. If everyone can rely on them to be applied against every trespasser, then the law is good. If law is conditional on the injured’s race or the trespasser’s status, the law is bad. It is that simple.”

“You’re quite the sage, aren’t you?” Geralt squinted. “Strange we’ve never met before.”

“An accident, for I have heard great many tales of you, Gwynbleidd.” The elf nodded. “It is the reason why I agreed to help. Although, you have impressed a lot of our warriors with your acquaintance with Yaevinn and Iorveth. They grew up seeing those men as heroes. It makes you, of whom they know little, a hero by proxy.”

Geralt nodded uncomfortably. He’d never taken a side to become a hero. It had always been what he felt like the right thing to do. “Right. Uh. What can you tell me about the attack?”

The elf steered Geralt back to the others. “A week ago, a group of twelve men rode into our village and demanded money and food. When we tried to explain that we had paid our taxes and had nothing to give, they drew their swords. Two of the attackers were killed, but we also lost some of our own. They stole what they could grab and rode out of the village.”

“Can you show me the bodies?”

“No,” the elven elder said. “We buried them. No point in attracting necrophages. We do not need that kind of trouble in the middle of winter.” He smiled. “But some of our hunters followed them to their camp.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “You know where they are?”

“I will have one of them take you there in the morning. For tonight, please, vatt'ghern, accept our hospitality.”

Geralt spent the night in a surprisingly cozy tent. The elf elder had been nice to Roach, too, allowing her to stay with the village animals. It meant she was fed hay and kept warm. She’d been happy enough about it that she trotted over all by herself without looking back at Geralt. That made him feel a little bad about taking her through this snow. Well, the sooner they tied up the mission, the sooner Roach could sleep in palace stables again.

He set out in the morning together with a small band of elven hunters. The elves insisted going on foot, promising it wouldn’t be too far. Geralt agreed, figuring that Roach would be safe enough and definitely happier in the village.

The snow was lower the deeper they got into the forest. There were the occasional heaps where it had slipped off the branches overhead, but even those were less high than they’d have been outside the forest. Sometimes, when they came across one of the frequent animal tails, one or two of the hunters would follow it, returning with fresh meat after a time. Other than that, most of the day passed without notable incident.

The sun was an hour, maybe two above the horizon when one of the hunters signalled them all to stop. The ground had become rockier under the snow and the trees more scarce. Geralt thought he was seeing a sharp drop not too far ahead.

“We’re here,” the leader of the hunting party whispered. “Very quiet now, vatt-ghern, or we might be detected. Without a plan, we are sure to fail against enemies in heavy armor and good health, even with your help.” She crouched down, motioning Geralt to do the same. With her gloves, she moved the snow away, before taking them off so she could draw on the dirt with an arrow.

“We’re above their hideout right now,” she explained, drawing a curve. “Most of them should be in the cave below during the night. They don’t keep too many guards out at night. They think this deep in winter in the depth of the forest, they’re mostly safe. That is where they’ll be wrong. Now, we have two options. Do you wish to take the brunt of the fighting on yourself or would you like our assistance? Drawing them out of their cave without armor could prove difficult. Yet fighting them in the cave will see you fighting them with only two of my hunters. We cannot risk losing anyone.”

“What about the guards outside?” Geralt asked.

The elf smiled. “Those will be dealt with before you even manage to circle around to the entrance.”

Geralt hummed thoughtfully. “Need proof of their misdeeds, though. Can’t just return to Vizima without proof. I could take them. Probably. If I can’t, I will detonate a bomb. Send in your men after me if they dare. If not, I can still run for it. Wouldn’t be the first time I pulled back to fight from a better position.”

The elf nodded grimly. “We shall wait for you outside, using the best vantage points for us.”

“Alright.” Geralt drew in a deep breath of the crisp winter air. “We should probably give them time to fall asleep first. And rest.”

“No fires,” the elf warned. “We do not want to alert the bandits.”

Deep in the night, Geralt came out of his meditation as the elves roused each other. He did his best to move to warm his muscles that had gone stiff with cold. His mutations helped with that, as a side effect of his faster metabolism. The elves were also all stretching in preparation for the fight. Only a few of them had slept. The rest had spent the past hours scouting or standing guard.

Geralt exchanged a nod with the leader to signal he was ready.

They set out again, inhumanly quiet as only elves or witchers could be.

There was barely a whisper as the two guards at the entrance to the cave collapsed with arrows through their chests. A third one fell just as he returned from walking the perimeter. After that, sneaking into the cave was easy. Geralt had downed a Cat potion just to be sure.

Quietly, he extinguished every light he came across. The cave entrance was a narrow path. If not for the dim light of a candle, Geralt would have walked straight into the guard at the end of the tunnel. As it was, Geralt managed to snuff the light and send the guard to sleep without a struggle. The cave had widened into a room with two more tunnels leading deeper into the earth. But those could wait a little longer. There were crates and barrels stacked against the walls, full of food and drink from what Geralt could smell. He took the time to look around for anything that linked the crates to any of the villages. There were one or two that had been marked with crests. Carefully, Geralt broke off one of the crests burnt into the corner of a crate. Another had paper stuck to it which he also took. He hoped that, together with his word, it’d be enough to convince Roche if he couldn’t find more.

Down one of the tunnels, Geralt heard faint voices. He headed there first. Just to be sure, he drew his sword.

“...hit next?” a rough voice asked.

“Tannevale looks good to me,” another responded. The man talking sounded sulking. “Dunno why we can’t visit again. The lasses are pretty and we left them plenty of food last time.”

There was a smack and an angry commotion. Geralt paused just in the shadow of the tunnel. There were five men around a table. The room itself was small, with crates lining the walls and a single bed in a corner. Add the men and the table, and the room was basically full. Light was provided by two torches on stands and a candle on the table.

As the commotion died down to mere grumbling, the first man spoke again: “No. I say we drop by Roshawton and that’s it. Any complaints can be directed at me ploughing fist.” He paused for a moment. “No takers? Thought so. Now then…”

Geralt had extinguished the candle. With another two gestures from him, the torches sputtered out, one after the other.

“What in the ploughing world…?” one of the men hissed. 

“Weapons!” another ordered but it was already too late. Soft as a whisper, Geralt had stepped between them, beheading one with a smooth strike, then piercing another’s heart with a turn and a jab. Unlike the men, he saw well in the dark. He didn’t bump into the table as he killed a third. When he reached the fourth, weapons were drawn but they had no sight. It was easy to dodge the blindly swung club and bash the hilt of his sword in the attacker’s face. The last man was trying to strike a spark onto the candle wick but stopped when the strike illuminated Geralt for a flash.

“Please,” he muttered.

Geralt ignored him, like he presumed the man had ignored the pleas of dozens of other people. Another quick strike, and the last man was down. Geralt relit the torches so he could look around. He found a ledger with letters and crude maps, as well as a number of loose notes. He pocketed them all. There was a good chance some spy could make more of them than he could. Not that he really wanted to care, but he imagined Emhyr being proud of him for that just for the briefest of moments.

As he was slowly walking back to the storage room, he heard quiet little noises ahead. Ready to fight as he was, he paused barely in time to avoid attacking one of the hunters. There was a brief, silent conversation. From what Geralt gathered, the elves had decided to follow him inside to take prisoners. At least, the elf had shown him ropes and jerked a finger at the second tunnel. Geralt nodded. He’d started to have doubts about how he’d go about dealing with sleeping enemies. Capturing them was definitely preferable.

The second tunnel lead into the biggest room of the cave. There was a campfire still burning in the middle of it. Around it, the ground had been padded with furs and rugs. Geralt could hear the sound of snoring. There was even more stolen food stored here. The sheer amount of it made it clear why the villagers they’d robbed were so angry. They knew they didn’t have enough to last them until the spring. Meanwhile the bandits had more than enough to last them comfortably.

There were elves waiting in the shadows when Geralt entered the room. Everyone had ropes. “We’ve to be fast,” whispered one so only Geralt could hear.

Geralt shook his head. “If anyone wakes, I can send them back to sleep in a moment. Witcher, remember?”

The elf nodded, first at him, then at the rest of the group. They carefully made their way over to the sleeping bandits. When the elves were all in position, there was a tiny signal. Then, they each snatched and tied the bandit they’d been standing above in seconds. Before they’d even fully realized what was happened they’d move onto the next. Then, the yelling started.

In the end, Geralt had only had to put two of them to sleep before everyone was bound.

“What now, Gwynbleidd?” the leader of the hunting party asked as they convened by the fire.

Geralt looked around. “Beats me. I’d imagine King Vernon wants to redistribute their loot himself. But taking those bandits in alive should give him an excuse to reward you for your help.”

The hunter scoffed. “And you believe he would?”

“Yeah. I do.” Geralt nodded to emphasize his conviction. “And even if he wouldn’t want to, he’d have to explain why he doesn’t to the Emperor in person. Who probably disagrees.”

The hunter smiled grimly. “That, I want to see. Alright.” She turned to her elves. “We’ll be leaving for Vizima in the morning. Those who haven’t yet, try to get some sleep.”

As the hunter had ordered, they left early in the morning. Some of those that had stood guard during the night had hunted the crates and barrels for a simple breakfast for all of them. After that, they left, taking their prisoners in their middle. It took a few warning pokes and jabs until the bound bandits got the idea that running was their worst option. Eventually, they resigned themselves to their fate.

They reached the main road to Vizima by late afternoon. Just when they’d started to scout for a place to camp for the night they ran into a troop of Nilfgaardian and Temerian soldiers. The first couple of minutes were terse, until Geralt rummaged through his pack and produced the seal. A brief whispered conversation later, the soldiers offered to guard the prisoners for the night and escort Geralt and the hunters to the palace in the morning. Thankful, Geralt agreed. The hunters were more reluctant, but when Geralt showed them the seal, too, they allowed the soldiers to stick around without further discussion.

They reached the city the next day. As soon as they reached the palace, Geralt was handed from one servant to the next until he and the leader of the hunting party were standing in Roche’s office. When they’d finished their report, Roche stared straight ahead for a long while, before he finally thanked the hunter with an elaborate speech and written promises of support for the founding and building of their village. The hunter looked a bit stunned when all was over.

When they were finally dismissed and before a servant would take the elven hunter back to her party, she pulled Geralt in a nook for a few words in private. She pressed something small and wooden into Geralt’s hand. “You were right, Gwynbleidd,” she breathed. “I am not sure how to thank you. Please, take this trinket as a sign of my gratitude. You didn’t have to emphasize our role as much as you did and I am thankful for that, too.”

“It’s alright, really.” Geralt assured her. “Dunno what I’d do with a proper royal reward anyway. Better your village gets it. When people hear about it, it’d give them pause before doing anything stupid. Can’t heal old hatred overnight. But it’s a start.”

The elf nodded. “I… see that now. When his Majesty asked me if anyone from our village would permanently join his council… there are no words. Even if it’s just a symbol, it is a powerful one.”

Geralt clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Good luck. Let me know if you ever need help.”

She nodded, a small smile around the corners of her mouth. As the servant that had been waiting for her lead her away, she turned around one last time to wave at him.

Geralt himself was led back to the guest rooms he’d occupied before. There was a bath waiting for him and additional hot water for a quick wash before he went in to soak. Somebody had remembered his preferences. There were even snacks and refreshments, as well as a shaving kit “should the gentleman require to use one”.

Once he’d relaxed into the hot water, he picked up the trinket the elf had given him for closer inspection. It was a small carving of a hedgehog. There seemed to be no purpose to it but to be vaguely decorative. Geralt wondered out loud if it was an accident or if the tales of the midwinter hedgehog had reached that non-human camp as well. Of course, seeing as he was alone, he got no answer.

He ate some of the provided fruit, drank most of the wine and then closed his eyes for a while. When he opened them again, the water had gone lukewarm and the candles around the room had become noticeably shorter. With a sad sigh, he got out of the tub and dried himself off, before wrapping the soft towel around his hips. He was already feeling so much better than out in the cold, trudging through snow that kept clinging to his boots and soaking his clothes. Maybe he would ask Roche to let him stay until spring. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be anyway.

Although he was starting to miss Touissaint and especially Corvo Bianco which had become his home far too quickly now that he couldn’t even bear to think of going back to Kaer Morhen for more than visiting graves. Try as he might to blame it on the quality of the Temerian wine, he really just missed his own bed and the vineyard and the babbling brook behind the house and the mild weather. So, maybe staying two to three months wasn’t his best choice after all.

Still contemplating that thought, he picked up the mirror of the shaving kit to take a look at his beard. It was starting to look a little unkempt and somewhat too long for his liking. But he didn’t want to shave it all off either, not in the middle of winter when it helped keep his face warm. So he merely used the razor to give his beard a clean edge all around, cutting away any stray hairs. When he was done with that, he picked up the scissors that were also part of the kit and trimmed the length until he was satisfied. All done, he washed his face with fresh water and cleaned up from his shave.

Clothes had been laid out for him to wear too. Black trousers, black shoes, and a simple white-ish shirt. All soft and comfortable and fitting him perfectly. It was impressive. And a bit concerning because he was almost certain that Emhyr was the one who had his measurements and not Roche.

Finally feeling like a person again he wondered what he should do. It was too late to go back to the non-human village and fetch Roach. It was probably too early to go to bed. He could try to find somebody to bother, but he wasn’t sure Ves was even in the palace and Roche had looked stressed and busy so he was out, too.

Which left Emhyr.

A horrible, bad, suicidal idea, Geralt knew. But once he’d had it, he couldn’t shake it. The temptation was too great. His presence alone would annoy Emhyr to no end. And either the guards would make it more challenging, or they’d let him through which he could use to needle Emhyr why the hell they’d do that.

Finding Emhyr was only a matter of following his nose. None of the servants bothered him, not even when he’d entered the wing of the palace reserved for the royal family and any royal guests. The Temerian guards ignored him. Meanwhile, the Nilfgaardians greeted him with brief nods. It was strange.

None of them even raised an eyebrow when he knocked at the door to Emhyr’s suite. He waited ten heartbeats for a response. When he got none, he looked at the guards, shrugged and opened the door. Nobody stopped him.

Emhyr looked up briefly from his desk, before returning to the parchment he’d been writing on. “Why are you here, Geralt?” he asked, the scratch of his quill picking up again.

Geralt frowned. It wasn’t what he had expected, although he wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected. He pulled up a chair to the desk and plopped down on it. “Why am I allowed to be here?” he returned the question, staring hard at Emhyr for any indication of what he might be wishing to hide about his thoughts. Surprisingly, Emhyr didn’t smell of stress or even annoyance. On the contrary, he’d relaxed almost imperceptibly when he’d recognized Geralt.

Emhyr sighed. He put down his quill carefully, steepled his hands and glared at Geralt across the desk. Geralt held his glare. “What do you want?” Emhyr growled.

Geralt shrugged. He’d been bored, this had been the easiest way to starve off that boredom. But he couldn’t say that to Emhyr. So he opted for deflection. “Mostly to know why the fuck your soldiers didn’t stop me from being here. Why am I allowed to just come in here?” His hand found the tiny hedgehog. “Oh. And I got you a present while I was gone.”

Softly, with his eyes turned to the ceiling, Geralt heard Emhyr whisper, “Please, Sun and all Northern gods, don’t let it be any monster parts.”

Geralt grinned, drawing out the moment when Emhyr was looking at him again. He placed the carving on the desk with delicate care. “It’s a wood carving of a hedgehog.”

“Why?” Emhyr’s expression was tightly guarded again. Like he wasn’t sure whether this was an actual gift or mere mockery.

Geralt pressed his lips together. He hadn’t considered that Emhyr would take it as malicious. It had been a nice accident for it to be a hedgehog and he hadn’t thought beyond the idea that it would make a gift for Emhyr. “Well, I kept hearing that story about a magical hedgehog that brings presents for Midwinter.” He shrugged again. “And decided I want a present, too. So I have to be nice first, right?”

After a long moment, Emhyr said slowly, “Cirilla considers you family. Because of that, I ordered the Imperial Guard to treat you as such. Which is why you have access to me like you do.”

Geralt squinted across the table. It seemed part of the reason, at most. “So,” he said, deciding to test that theory. “If I propositioned you again in a way you couldn’t decide to misunderstand…?”

“We’d find out if I am capable of stabbing you with my quill,” Emhyr finished, glaring at Geralt. “You’ve never shown any interest in men. I fail to see why you’d change that for me of all people.” He pressed his lips together in a clear expression of dismay. As if the last part had slipped out unplanned.

Geralt pounced at the weakness on instinct. “For you of all people?” he repeated. With a smile that usually worked on people, he added, “I could do far worse.” He didn’t miss the way Emhyr’s hand twitched toward the quill. Using his enhanced reflexes, he snatched it up before Emhyr could grab it.

“Witcher,” Emhyr growled.

“Tell me why and you can have your weapon back,” Geralt smirked. The growl was doing things for him. And he was sure he wasn’t misreading things. He could smell Emhyr’s interest. Emhyr was tempted. He was just fighting it for some reason. Which only fueled Geralt’s curiosity. He couldn’t understand why Emhyr would be fighting himself to not get something he clearly wanted.

To his surprise, Emhyr produced a slim, yet very sharp looking dagger. “I am still contemplating to simply stab you a little.”

“You care too much about what Ciri thinks to do that.” Geralt leaned back. “C’mon, who else could you confide in? I don’t want anything from you. I’m already welcome to visit Ciri any time. My letters get delivered to her. There’s nothing else I want.”

For a long, increasingly uncomfortable moment, Emhyr stared at Geralt in silence. The first indicator that he’d reached a decision was the disappearance of the dagger. As if it’d never been there in the first place. “Are you proposing…” Emhyr paused before the next word. “Companionship?”

Geralt shrugged. “I was thinking…” And he’d meant to say sex, but something about Emhyr’s tone made him pause. “Yeah,” he said. “Company. An open ear. Someone to cuddle after a hard day.”

Emhyr huffed in amusement. “I could just keep a cat for all those things.”

“A cat can’t talk back at you.”

Emhyr stood and motioned for Geralt to follow him over to the sitting room. “That is one of your foremost qualities, yes.”

“One you like.” Geralt was fishing there but he was pretty confident in the guess.

“I enjoy challenges,” Emhyr deflected. He made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs. “Please, feel free to help yourself to a drink.”

Geralt took his time to look around the small liquor cabinet. Some had clearly been opened before, others hadn’t been touched. He hunted down the one that was the emptiest. It was a kind of brandy that smelled of fruit and a lot of alcohol. He poured himself a glass.

“You want some, too?”

“No, thank you.” Emhyr had closed his eyes. “But if you could be so good as to kindle the fire.”

Geralt waved his hand at the fireplace to reignite it with his magic before he plopped down on the other chair. “So, do I get to guess why I get to be here?”

Emhyr merely hummed.

“You didn’t kick me out because you decided I’m safe to be around,” Geralt started. It felt good that someone was listening to his deductions for once. “Even if I wanted to ally myself with your enemies, it’d only hurt Ciri, too. So I have to be on your side by default. Because you’re doing what you can to have her back. And she believes you. That gives you the benefit of the doubt. Whatever you tell me, I can’t use it against you. And I’m the only one you have like that. I just can’t figure out whether or not you actually like me.”

“Correct,” Emhyr sighed. “And I am unsure of the last part myself. You are quite infuriating.”

“Right back at you,” Geralt murmured around his glass. The brandy was burning pleasantly down his throat and warmed his belly. “You’ve been interested in me before.”

“Possibly.”

Geralt nudged Emhyr’s foot with his. “Possibly?”

“I am entertaining the idea that my attachment to you was caused by the circumstances of our meeting. Or by our shared connection with Cirilla.” Emhyr pinched the bridge of his nose. “It is quite common, or so I have read.”

“Right.” Geralt rolled his eyes. “But can you explain to me why that’s a problem?”

Emhyr dropped his hand to look at Geralt. He pointedly rolled his eyes, lips pressed firmly together.

“Fine. Right,” Geralt grumbled. “That’s feelings and you don’t like those. They’re strange. Weird. Icky.”

Emhyr shot him a look like he wanted to stab him again. “You are, as always, exaggerating.”

“Look.” Geralt took a deep breath. “You want me. I want you. I don’t care why or how as long as we do agree on how to deal with it. Preferably by some kind of fucking.”

“...a simple man with simple needs,” Emhyr scoffed. He looked more and more like he was regretting Geralt’s presence.

That really, really couldn’t do. Not when Geralt wanted this to go anywhere. So he emptied his glass in one final draw. It was strong enough that he could feel a slight buzz now. In a rough, low voice that had worked countless times, he purred, “Just tell me how you want me.”

It at least got a startled noise out of Emhyr, although Geralt couldn’t decide whether it was angry or surprised. “Tell me, Geralt,” Emhyr ordered, his voice firm and deliberately even. “Will this be just this one time? Or do you intend to subject me to this…” He waved his hand as if he couldn’t find the right word. “... _ this _ every time you feel like it?”

Geralt shrugged. He hadn’t even considered a repeat was on the table. “Depends.”

With an air of finality that made Geralt think he’d be kicked out after all, Emhyr stood. “Let’s just get this over with so your curiosity is sated and you can leave me alone.” He reached for the clasps of his robe as he spoke. Geralt didn’t dare move for fear Emhyr would change his mind.

Geralt started to stare outright as the robe dropped. It was actually happening. The thought kept forcing itself to the front of his mind. His palms had gone sweaty. He actually wanted this. A deep breath in through the nose told him despite his façade, Emhyr wanted it, too. Wanted him. He closed his eyes and swallowed against the sudden impulse to say something, to assure Emhyr that it would be good. That he would do his utmost to make it good for them both. But something stopped him.

They’d do this on Emhyr’s terms or not at all. He was suddenly certain of that.

“This is how it’ll happen,” Emhyr declared as if he’d read Geralt’s thoughts. He was undoing his shirt as he was talking, which, together with his firm tone, made it difficult for Geralt to process the actual words. He’d always had a thing for people who knew exactly what they wanted from him in bed. “You will remain seated. You will keep your hands and forearms on the armrests at all times. If I decide to hold you down, you will not fight me. I will take my pleasure and if you prove satisfactory, you shall have yours, too. If you break any of the rules or if either of us decides at any point that we wish to stop, we will stop and you will walk away. Am I understood?”

Geralt swallowed thickly. That speech alone had gone straight to his cock. “Understood,” he responded, his tongue feeling heavy with lust.

After a second’s pause, Emhyr continued to undress. The shirt went first, revealing more muscle and less fat than Geralt had expected. He shuddered as he imagined how it’d feel to be allowed to run his hands all over Emhyr’s torso. He wetted his lips, wondering if licking would taste as good as Emhyr smelled.

Next, Emhyr sat back down to divest himself of his shoes. A moment later, he stood again. Avoiding Geralt’s gaze, he unlaced his trousers quickly and pushed them down. Geralt inhaled deeply through his nose, savoring the smell of Emhyr’s arousal now filling the air without restraint. He wanted to get on his knees and bury his nose in the source of the smell. Maybe, if Emhyr was patient enough to let him learn, suck him off, too. But either would be a violation of Emhyr’s rules and the fastest way to get bodily thrown out of the room with a throbbing erection still tenting his trousers.

“Stay where you are,” Emhyr ordered as he turned around and walked out of the room, confident despite his nakedness. Geralt took the brief interlude to adjust himself through the fabric of his pants as subtly as he could. When Emhyr returned, his hand was closed around a small object. He didn’t waste any time from there, immediately straddling Geralt. The object turned out to be a small bottle of oil. But with Emhyr suddenly so close, Geralt had a hard time thinking about it.

Now, it wasn’t just the smell anymore. He could feel the heat radiate off Emhyr. His own skin felt like it was burning where their legs touched, despite the layer of fabric between them. His breath was disturbing the hair dusting Emhyr’s chest. He kept his eyes fixed on Emhyr’s collar bone, because he didn’t trust himself not to move and at least try to get a taste if he looked anywhere else.

Emhyr had put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder to stabilize himself, while he was doing something with his other. Something that made tiny gasps escape his lips every now and again. Each of which made Geralt’s hard cock twitch. He gripped the armrests harder, ignoring the warning groan of the wood. It was either that or touching and he wasn’t ready for this experience to end yet.

Suddenly, Emhyr was gripping him harder. His breath held, his nails digging into Geralt’s flesh. Geralt could smell his cock leaking. When Emhyr’s grip finally relaxed again, he was groaning softly in between gasps for air. Geralt couldn’t help himself. He wanted to soothe, wanted to touch, wanted to hold. He wasn’t allowed any of that. All he could do without moving in any way Emhyr had forbidden, was to kiss the knuckles of the hand still gripping his shoulder.

In the blink of an eye, the hand was in Geralt’s hair, pulling his head back with force. Emhyr was glaring at him, his face a mask of rage Geralt couldn’t understand at all. “This is your only warning,” Emhyr hissed.

Geralt tried to plead with his eyes to be allowed some touching. His scalp was burning where Emhyr was pulling at his hair. He wanted so much more than he was getting. And yet, his cock was still hard and throbbing, reveling in the pain and intensity of Emhyr’s glare.

“Please,” he whispered. “Use me.”

It was easier to say that than to beg for anything else he wanted. To be embraced and embrace in turn. To kiss every bit of Emhyr’s skin but especially his lips. To take their time, for the rest of the night, or until the morning, or even the next evening. He wanted so much that it terrified him.

Emhyr held his gaze for another moment before he let go of Geralt’s hair. “A little more patience,” he purred, low in his chest. “I’m almost ready.”

Almost ready still meant long agonizing moments of waiting. Geralt’s head was swimming in sensory pleasure, making it hard to think. He wondered, his mind sluggish with each thought, if it was that intense because he wasn’t allowed to move. If it would be even better if he was tied up. If Emhyr would tie him up the next time if he asked nicely.

He was so lost in the idea of a next time, that he actually cried out in shock when Emhyr’s hand brushed over the tip of his cock. Seconds later, his pants were undone and his cock was freed. Emhyr ran his fingers over it from tip to base, his eyes closed and biting his lower lip. A shudder ran through him.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he breathed so softly that even Geralt had trouble making out the words.

And then he grasped Geralt’s cock near the base to hold him steady and lowered himself onto it. Geralt’s mind went blank for a couple of seconds. It was so hot, so tight, inside Emhyr. He had to bite down on his lip to keep himself from coming right away.

Emhyr was taking his time, pausing ever so often to catch his breath and, judging by how tight he was around Geralt’s prick, to get used to the girth. When he was finally seated, with most of Geralt’s cock inside of him, Emhyr leaned forward, his eyes closed. He rested his head against Geralt’s. His breath was coming in harsh, labored bursts. His thighs were trembling with the strain of the awkward position, even as he tentatively started to move again.

Geralt had closed his eyes, too. It felt good, if he pretended the rules Emhyr had set were a choice instead. He’d wanted this. He still wanted this. He wanted to hear all the tiny gasps and moans Emhyr made as he slowly worked out how to angle himself best. The smell of arousal was still fantastic.

But… But! It was so impersonal, by design. It suddenly hit him that it couldn’t be mere preference. He hadn’t been wrong about Emhyr, he knew he wasn’t wrong. There was no way Emhyr had, at the very core of him, changed so much since he’d been a young man. The iron will and drive and fire was still there. But so had to be his needs for love and company and family. They were still there. It had been so natural and blatantly obvious in Ciri that he’d missed it, but she had learned that despite everything, and despite not really knowing how to, Emhyr still loved her unconditionally.

If, in this, he was still the man he’d been a quarter of a century ago, Geralt could easily see himself fall in love, if only he were allowed.

He had wanted Emhyr back then. Partly because he knew he couldn’t have him. Partly because despite that he knew that he was wanted himself. And then Destiny had bound them together anyway, in the cruellest of ways.

The clarity with which Geralt suddenly realized that Emhyr had placed those restrictions to protect himself from hope hit so hard it caused almost physical pain. It all fell in place in time with Emhyr’s tiny pants, with the electric shivers running up and down Geralt’s skin. Emhyr was treating him like another notch in his bedpost because it was what he feared he was to Geralt. That it was brought on by boredom and curiosity and not genuine want.

The thought of letting that stand made Geralt’s stomach clench. “I could love you,” he breathed, turning his head to make sure Emhyr could hear him. “If you give me the time to get to know you again.”

Emhyr stilled.

“I spent every moment I could thinking about you while I was gone,” Geralt went on, his heart pounding. “I wanted you, back in the day. When I couldn’t have you. But then I thought you’d changed. Until you…” He swallowed, gasping softly when Emhyr shifted his weight. “Until you proved you hadn’t, not really. And I think I get it, or at least part of it. But I’d like to one day see your genuine smile again.” He bit down on his lower lip for a moment, before forcing himself to go on. “I… I’m probably not worth the risk. I know. But, still… If you’d let me try…”

Emhyr pulled back, sitting up straighter, a small hiss of discomfort escaping him, so he could look Geralt in the face. Whatever he was searching for in the long moment he spent staring in Geralt’s eyes, he found it. “You actually mean that,” he concluded, awe sneaking into his tone. 

Geralt nodded emphatically. “I see no reason to lie.” He tried to smile. It was no outright rejection. That had to mean something. “Am I allowed to hold you?”

He wasn’t exactly prepared for Emhyr to surge forward and kiss him. Geralt took it as much of an open invitation as he’d ever get to touch. He wrapped his arms around Emhyr and held him close. He couldn’t help a sigh of relief. This, this was what he’d expected. This was what he’d  **wanted** .   
“Bed?” he asked between breathless kisses. “Not that this isn’t hot, but...”

“But…?” Emhyr’s hand stilled where it had snuck under Geralt’s shirt.

“But, bed would definitely be more comfortable.” Geralt stroked over the side of Emhyr’s quivering thigh. “Less strain. Option to cuddle after.” Geralt’s smile turned into a smirk. He bucked his hips. “Better leverage for this.”

Emhyr captured Geralt’s mouth with his again, taking Geralt’s lower lip between his teeth. It was a warning nip. And yet it only made Geralt smile more. Oh, he would have a lot of fun with Emhyr, he was coming to see.

“I could carry you,” he tried another tactic. He put his hands on Emhyr’s ass. “Like this.”

Emhyr groaned, rubbing his backside against Geralt’s hands. “I’ll not get any more work done today, am I?” he sighed. He didn’t sound particularly heartbroken about it.

“And not tomorrow, if I have my way,” Geralt grinned. “So, do I get to keep you in bed for a while? Or do you actually prefer the armchair?”

“Just… Do something,” Emhyr groaned, pushing his hips down to emphasize the point. “Anything.”

“Anything?” Geralt repeated. Using his hands, he moved Emhyr up and off his dick. It earned him small noises of protest, but he stifled them by licking a broad stripe up Emhyr’s chest. He did taste as good as he smelled or possibly even better, because the bitter smell of stress was fading more and more. “How do you feel about ruining the bear fur?”

He heard Emhyr swallow. “Better than bed,” Emhyr gasped. His hand had tangled itself in Geralt’s hair again and was holding him in place, much gentler than before. “Closer.”

“Good choice,” Geralt purred. He eased Emhyr to a stand, following suit a moment later. While he had the opportunity, he took off his shirt. Emhyr stared. He reached out to brush the tips of his fingers along one of the more prominent scars.

“You’ll have to tell me the stories of these some day,” he whispered. “All of them.”

“That’s gonna take a while,” Geralt whispered back between kisses. “Most of them come with long stories.” He was pushing Emhyr down on the rug, pausing frequently for kisses. “And my back’ll have to wait until we’re not in Vizima anymore.”

“Why…?” Emhyr started but his voice trailed off into a strangled moan when Geralt kissed him on the inside of his thigh.

“I tell you later,” Geralt promised, intent on making Emhyr forget he’d ever said anything about it. “Right now, my mouth can be put to a better use.”

Before Emhyr could say anything, Geralt bent down to kiss the tip of his cock. It tasted… different. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it definitely wasn’t the same as with a woman. Careful and suddenly all too aware of his inexperience, he kissed his way down to the base. He scraped together memories of every time it had been done for him and tried to emulate it. Turned out it was a lot harder than he’d thought to get it into his mouth. First time he tried, he gagged. Same for the second time. After the third try, he had to pull off and cough.

Emhyr had the audacity to laugh. “We can practice,” he suggested, carding a hand through Geralt’s hair. “You don’t have to be instantly good at this.”

“That bad?” Geralt looked up.

Emhyr pulled him up by his shoulders for more kisses. “I’m too impatient, right now,” he murmured. As if to underline his point, he wrapped a leg around Geralt’s hip. “Get going, before I have to make you.”

“Demanding,” Geralt chuckled to downplay his nervousness. This, at least, he had done before. He could concentrate on the mechanics, lining himself up, pushing in slowly. It went easier now than before, one long smooth push until he was fully sheathed. He leaned forward so his forehead touched Emhyr’s and closed his eyes. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest.

Emhyr was petting his hair. He leaned into the touch. He hadn’t had this in so long. More cuddling than just fucking. He caught Emhyr’s lips with his just before he started to move.

After that, he lost himself in the slow rhythm they were setting. It was so easy to forget about everything else like this. What counted was just the two of them holding each other close. And he could have this, he was sure he could have this and keep this.

“I’ve…” Emhyr panted, clinging to Geralt’s shoulders with his hands. “I’ve loved you for so long. Even more so after I finally got to know Ciri.”

Geralt shuddered. Love. Without magic forcing it onto them. Just because of who he was. Of what he’d done.

Emhyr cupped his cheek and kissed him again deeply. He was shaking. The kiss helped, a little. “You were wrong, earlier,” Emhyr went on, still holding him as close as possible. “You’re worth the risk.”

Geralt stilled. “Stop saying such things,” he groaned. “Not now.”

Emhyr kissed the side of his face. “I’m afraid if I miss this chance I’ll miss it for good.”

Geralt didn’t know how to respond to that. It was nothing he could respond to. So he did the best he could think of and thrust forward with renewed vigor. If he couldn’t shut Emhyr up with words, he could just as well pound him until he forgot what words were.

What felt like both a second and an eternity later, Geralt rolled off Emhyr to sprawl out on his back, feeling hot and sticky and oh so sated and spent. Bed would have been better, he thought, as he blindly felt around for Emhyr to pull him close and hold him some more. “Give me a moment, then we can go get cleaned up,” he murmured, feeling sleepy. The way Emhyr was running his hand over his chest felt good. He was warm and happy. Safe, too. He could just fall asleep like they were.

“I will have to tell an attendant to clear my schedule for tonight,” Emhyr said, stifling a yawn. “And make sure they know you intend to dine and have breakfast with me so they bring enough food.”

“You could also clear your schedule for tomorrow,” Geralt suggested. He felt so incredibly hopeful, just because Emhyr wanted him to stay the night. “Who, if not you, could take a break for a day or two?”

That made Emhyr laugh, a sound that only helped to stoke the happy glow Geralt felt inside his chest. “Everyone. But do enlighten me, how do I best break this to Cirilla. Or is there at least a good excuse you could think of for her when she cannot reach me with any important questions she needs counsel on?” He sighed. “And there’s always our host to consider, too.”

“Roche can bite me,” Geralt growled. “Besides, he’d probably be happy if you got off his back a little.”

Emhyr shifted so he could look at Geralt. “Do tell me why you think that.”   
“Because he cares to do a good job. Because he wants Temeria to prosper more than anyone in the world. Because you picked him not just because he was the only choice but also because you think he can do his job. But he needs outside approval, occasionally. He’s been receiving orders for much of his life, it’s hard to shake sometimes.”

Emhyr nodded. “I will consider that. And Cirilla…?”

Geralt shifted uncomfortably. “I think that’s something you’ll have to figure out on your own. Or you could leave it to me. She’ll probably take it better coming from me.”

“Noted.” Emhyr settled back down. As their sweat was cooling, the additional heat from his body was more than welcome for Geralt. “Can I convince you to come with me to Nilfgaard?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, and found that he meant it. “Until you’re either sick of me or ready to retire to Toussaint with me.”


End file.
